


Christmas Bells

by jackaalope



Category: True Detective
Genre: Father's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackaalope/pseuds/jackaalope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sophia is a wave-jumping queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Bells

Sophia is a wave-jumping queen.

Here she stands, warm, tiny hands on the backs of his, the wet hem of her bathing suit’s skirt flapping against his calves in the wind. Sand is everywhere, pressed into their palms, clinging to their clothes, dried in scaly crusts on their skin, and Rust hates sand, hates it even more than the mud that Claire’s always tracking into the kitchen after gardening, but he’s not paying any attention. His eyes are fixed on the wisps of blonde hair that have fallen out of her pink hair-tie, on the tiny feet that keep stepping on his when she lands.

Another wave roars in, and she throws her hands high, squealing as he lifts her, swings her over its foamy edge.  She lands in its middle, water lapping around her ankles, pounding her heels to make it splash. And their laughter mingles: hers, little and delighted, like the peals of Christmas bells, and his as wide and happy and unrestrained as the waves that wash beneath them.

When she finally gets tired, he swings her up onto his shoulder and hauls her back to the towel as easily as if she were weightless. At this, she wriggles in half-indignation, and he grabs her foot and gnaws at her leg with his lips, sand and all, growling in playful hunger.

Sophia the wave-jumping queen laughs again, filling the air with those glorious, endless bells.

 

 

It’s Father’s Day, a different one, a lifetime or two later. Marty is out with his girls, who whisked him off this morning in a flurry of smiles that are still, even after all these years, a bit too polite. They had stopped in just long enough to eat a couple of the fried eggs that Rust was making, to give their father a cheesy card from Hallmark that he’d laughed at just a little bit louder than he normally did, and to hint at the plans they’d made for the upcoming day. And then they were gone, and Rust had eaten his fried egg out of the skillet, washed it and the spoon, and sat down at the kitchen table. He didn’t think he could make it much farther with these chains hanging down from his last two ribs.

He’s still sitting there in the late afternoon when Marty comes home and strolls in, flicks on the light. Marty starts like a spooked horse when he sees him.

“Jesus Christ.” He has sunburn on his nose. “What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark?”

Rust turns his head to look up from under his heavy lids as if he’s just noticing that Marty’s walked in. His eyes are too bright.

“Thinking,” he says. And there’s that catch in his voice that Marty’s beginning to recognize, so he just nods and pulls out the chair next to his and sits down. Rust dodges his eyes, stares into the woodwork of the table.

“Hey. Any chance you wanna think out loud?”


End file.
